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“We tolerate no other sovereignty,” the courtiers murmured, “and accept none other than Apollius and those He’s blessed.”

Those he’s blessed. The Arceneaux family. Royalty and religion tangled up in an inextricable knot.

Lore shifted again, her legs going numb as they pressed into the hard floor.

“We bask in Your light,” Anton said, his hands coming down from their outstretched position to rest on his chest. He looked like the statue of the Bleeding God in the garden, and Lore was nearly certain it was intentional. “And we wait faithfully for Your return, when our world is cleared of darkness and made ready. We ask that You make a vessel for Your light.”

“We ask that You return and make us holy,” the gathered nobles murmured. “Return from Your Shining Realm and make it here.”

The thurible made one more rotation, swinging smoke in a spiral through the air. Then Anton, the Presque Mort, and the Priest with his candle stepped back.

The Sainted King stood. The light of the window behind him burnished his graying hair, illuminated the rays of his crown. Anton inclined his head to his brother, passing off the leadership of the ceremony.

There was a slight tremble in August’s hand as he raised it. “Gabriel and Eldelore Remaut, come forward please.”

Gods dead and dying, had it not occurred to anyone to give them an idea of how this was supposed to go? Gabe had told her that they had to be officially introduced, that it would look strange if they weren’t, but they’d received no instructions on how the actual introduction was supposed to take place.

August arched a brow, like he was irritated at their apparent confusion. Lore briefly considered wrenching one of those garnets off his crown and stuffing it in his nostril.

Gabe seemed just as surprised as she was. The two of them took a beat, looking at each other in lost silence. Then, ever graceful, Gabe offered her his arm and slid out into the aisle, leading her up to the altar and the smug faces of both Arceneaux men waiting there.

Curious gazes followed them. Lore couldn’t tell if any were friendly, but her money was on no.

August gave them a smile as they walked toward him, a cold one that came nowhere near his eyes. He didn’t say anything, instead flicking his fingers in a motion that told them to face the congregation.

Gabe’s cheeks burned, making the slight freckles across his nose stand out. But he did as he was bidden, taking Lore with him, and faced the court. The first row of nobles could probably hear her teeth grinding.

“At long last,” August said from behind them, voice lifted to carry across the North Sanctuary. “The Remaut family returns to the Citadel.”

He paused, and after a moment of needle-drop silence, the gathered courtiers gave a round of polite applause. Gabe’s arm was so tense beneath Lore’s hand that it nearly shook.

She squeezed, hoping to offer some kind of reassurance. But Gabe’s face didn’t change, like he barely registered her presence at all.

“Gabriel is on a brief… hiatus… from his holy duties to the Presque Mort,” August continued, “and will be residing with us for the season to introduce his cousin Eldelore to polite society. Please make them welcome.”

The courtiers all inclined their heads, faces inscrutable, blurred by the rapidly increasing sunlight through the windows lining the sanctuary. Lore nodded back, mostly because she wasn’t sure what else to do, and flicking both her middle fingers at them didn’t seem like proper duke’s-cousin behavior.

“Go in peace,” August said, and with that, First Day prayers were dismissed. Courtiers rose, making their way back toward the double doors leading to the path and the green. Voices murmured and laughed, the solemnity of religious ritual disappearing as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Lore looked to Gabe, but he still seemed far away, expression distant. After a moment, he drifted toward the doors with the rest of the nobles. With a weary sigh, Lore went to follow.

Gabe seemed so lost here. Almost as lost as she was.

August’s hand came down on her shoulder before she took a second step. “I’m afraid the court’s diversions will have to wait,” he said quietly. “You have a task before you, Lore. Come with me.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Emperor was rumored to drink a cup of hemlock tea each morning, so that he might live longer. Still, he died in the night, though most think it was his son rather than his sickness.

—Last report of Gaspard Beauchamp, Auverrani spy in the Kirythean Empire, executed by Emperor Jax two days after message received

Gabe looked behind him at the moment August gripped Lore’s shoulder, like some extra sense told him to pay attention. When he saw August, he stopped, a rock in the eddying sea of courtiers, brow furrowed.

August waved a dismissive hand, speaking just loud enough for Gabe to hear him in the rising babble. “Your services are unneeded, Duke Remaut. We’re only going to the vaults.”

Lore shifted under August’s hand. “Could he come anyway? I’m—”

“I’ve made myself clear.” For all the force of his words, the way August took her arm was still polite. To anyone watching, he’d be the picture of a benevolent King, welcoming to even the lowest new noble in his glittering court. “You come with me. The duke does not.” He chucked a finger beneath her chin as if she were a wayward child. “The sooner we make progress on this, the sooner you’ll reunite.”